Déodat had a debt to pay.
Lena. A gentle creature, with gentle words and an even gentler touch. She had stood steadfast and unwavering in the blaze of his violate temper, never faltering beneath the onslaught of his stubborn pride and pig-headedness. She had healed him—a bad-tempered stranger she didn't even know—cleansing his deeply infected battle wounds and vanquishing the fever despite being ill-treated. Although he would never admit it, not even to himself, Déodat was deeply ashamed of his actions. But rather than doing the sensible thing and simply coughing up an apology, the red stallion volunteered his services instead, leaning heavily on the excuse that he was not one to linger in the shadow of a debt, which was true enough. He despised depending on anyone other than himself, and as a result of such pig-headed independence, he was determined to repay Lena's kindness in the only way he knew how.
The cold mountains of the northern borders had faded away long ago and a vast emptiness yawned before the small company, seemingly endless. How he missed the frigid air and the towering heights of the blue mountains! A sheen of dark sweat glistened on the blood red tones of his skin, glinting harshly beneath the sun as the company lingered on the edges of the Throat. He traveled at the rear of the company, following Larkspur, the sky-blue mare, at a distance. He did not know her well other than an infuriating first encounter, but Déodat felt she was the closest thing he had to a comrade in these foreign lands.
His strides were even and smooth, and thanks to Lena, his former strength and glory was restored to him with every step into the wild land riddled with danger and adventure. But this was not an adventure. It was a mission, and the seriousness of such an event did not go unnoticed by the General's son. He did not approve of Faelene and Lena's negotiating tactics, but then again, Déodat was clan-born and had never been one for the subtle intricacies and complexities of diplomacy. In the clans, war ruled all lives and it was attack or be attacked. Despite his hostile misgivings, he did not protest, and simply did as he was commanded.
He settled near Larkspur's shoulder, watching the proceedings with an emotionless expression. Another mare met them at the borders, and Déodat assumed this must be Elizabeth. He did little more than give her a vague glance, before settling on a formidable looking pegasus. His vision suddenly blurred and the fall of his father the General is livid and blood-red in his mind's eye, his heart seething in his chest like a broiling sea at the sight of wings protruding from the stallion's withers. Flaring his nostrils in distaste, Déodat cleared the vivid colors of painful memories from his mind, focusing his energy on analyzing every angle of the stallion. If there should be a fight, this would be the bird to bring down.
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Be great in act, as you have been in thought. [rescue]
![[Image: QV8O7HU.gif]](http://i.imgur.com/QV8O7HU.gif)
